CHILDREN (from Stefan Rechtschaffen’s book “Timework”)
Unfortunately, the interval between the time when a person
is still too young and the time when they are already too
old is so short.
Charles de Montesquieu
I play Nintendo with my teenage son. Although he is a good athlete, I can still beat him one-on-one in basketball, but in this game I have little chance of winning. In fact, I haven’t beaten him once in the past two years. That doesn’t mean I don’t try to win. I am completely focused on the game and distracted by nothing. Even so, Dan wins easily, as always, and I refuse his invitation to play another round, figuring that one disappointment from one child per day is quite enough.
His thinking is stronger, his strategy is stronger, his rhythm is stronger. Yes, his rhythm is stronger. With this realization, my resentment disappears, replaced by regret.
I realized that I lack speed in this matter. But should I really strive for speed? We create games and programs that develop speed skills; we believe that if children play even faster, this will better prepare them for the future. Is Dan’s dexterity at Nintendo some kind of harbinger of future success in adult life? Will he become so devoted to speed? This worries me. What if Nintendo’s rhythm, so typically social, becomes his primary rhythm?
Fortunately, we have both devoted time to other rhythms as well. He liked sitting in group meditation—not for long, but he wanted to try it too. We play a lot of chess with him, so we can interact in slower rhythms as well.
It is very important to teach our children to function well at different speeds and in different rhythms.
My youngest son, Eli, is three and a half. Recently, I had an interesting experience with him related to rhythm.
Lying in bed with him one morning, we heard a bird singing. Its song consisted of four measures, followed by a twenty-second pause, then another four measures, and so on: an even, wonderfully cheerful rhythm that captivated Eli. We started a game, trying to mark the beginning of the first measure with a movement of the hand. For five or ten minutes, we were absorbed in the bird’s song, merging with its rhythm. I felt the moment stretching, slowing down as a result of our complete attention. My little son managed to show such concentration, such complete presence, that
I felt a joyful excitement.
It reminded me of how I bought Eli a spinning top a year ago. When it spun, the top produced an even hum. Eli was simply fascinated by it. He could sit and watch it for a very long time, observing and listening; when the top slowed down, he would ask me to spin it again. Here too, the moment stretched. For Eli, time shifted into a slow, absorbing rhythm that held him captive.
Both episodes showed me new possibilities in educating children. It is very important that from an early age they learn to be attentive and present not only in the dynamic moments of Nintendo play, but also in the slower rhythms of life.
Too often we impose a fast rhythm on our children. If a small child seems restless or bored, we hurry to fill the time vacuum with a new game or entertainment. Videotapes teach letters and numbers to jazz music; we sit our children in front of the television to entertain them, then buy games and toys based on television shows. Even when children are alone, they are not alone: the television is always keeping them company.
Is it surprising that when children start school, they do their homework while listening to shrill, screeching records or leave the television on all day long? It is as though they are tracking several channels of attention at once, and somehow we believe this will be good preparation for their future work.
As soon as children come home from school, we ask not how they feel, but how they did on their tests and what they completed. And teachers assess not only their knowledge, but also how quickly they can put that knowledge down on paper.
And yet why are tests assigned a time limit? For the children, to see how quickly they can give answers—instead of checking how many answers they would give if allowed sufficient time? Or is all this done for the teachers’ convenience? Two or three hours, and the work of assessing knowledge is finished.
What if five hours were allotted for a test, so that even the fastest student had enough time to take three tests? Might that provide a truer picture of how much each student had learned? Might children who write or think more slowly—not to mention diligent students who would like to think their answers through completely—then come home from school uplifted rather than dejected? This happened once with my son Ram, who “simply didn’t have enough time” to finish his answers on an exam.
I asked him how he had done on the test we had prepared for together the previous evening. His disappointment was obvious, and I was surprised because he had known the material so well the night before. He explained that he knew the answers to every question; in fact, the answers he had managed to write down were correct. But he tended to write and read rather slowly, so some questions remained unanswered even though he knew them, resulting in a poor grade.
This reminded me of my own schooling in school and college, when I even dreamed dreams—and sometimes nightmares—and woke in terror that I had overslept and missed a test I had prepared for. What is the purpose of this pressure of time?
An acquaintance told me about her son, who attends special classes for children with learning difficulties. I felt the tension that she and, undoubtedly, her son experienced because of this. When we discussed the situation, it became obvious that her son was a very intelligent boy who simply did not think at the speed his teachers demanded of him. This child was neither stupid nor disobedient. Rather, he learned and expressed himself in a different rhythm. Perhaps he was an Einstein or a Picasso, since genius is connected with creativity and depth of understanding, not with speed of execution.
Timed tests measure how much information a child has mastered and how quickly they can produce it. But they do not assess knowledge—and that is something quite different—because knowledge requires reflection, and reflection requires time to flow more slowly. Indeed, adults now speak primarily of the flow of information, not the flow of knowledge.
What if we taught children not only arithmetic but also fullness of attention; if we introduced time for rest into school and university schedules and taught children to listen to music, not merely perform it? We do not do this—we have “too little time.”
From an early age, we involve children in the fast-paced rhythm in which society lives. “My Suzy isn’t even a year old, and she already knows thirty-seven words,” her mother says. Another mother counts: “My child learned to roll over at just four months.”
What are we rushing toward? As parents, we want our children to do everything better than others. We adults use time as a measure of our success and therefore push children to speed up.
We force children to adapt to our rhythm; as Alice Miller sharply observed in her book The Drama of the Gifted Child, we compel them to become like us, love what we love, strive for our goals, and live according to our standards.
Such parents are focused on the future (“You did that well, but can you do even better next time?”). Ram Dass calls this practice “training to be someone,” because parents want to mold their child into a person they would admire, someone who would satisfy the high demands of their egos. But in fact, by doing this we cut children off from access to their inner world, their own selves.
You have been reading this book long enough to understand: in this way we take the child away from the present.
We force them to live in the future, essentially not allowing them to live in the present.
And yet small children have no sense of time. Like animals—which never know the time—they can determine their position in space from infancy, but words such as “later,” “soon,” “tomorrow,” and “next year” are meaningless even to four-year-olds. The distinction between past, present, and future is unknown to small children. They live in the present moment, while we try to pull them out of it as quickly as possible.
My own life, too, was profoundly influenced by the fact that children in my family were always held to high expectations. I felt that I could never satisfy my parents’ desire for me to achieve ever-better results. They themselves knew how to achieve highly, and when they congratulated me on my accomplishments—for my successes were, essentially, their successes—I always felt that I could achieve more; and if I failed at something, it was not only my defeat but theirs as well. We win and experience defeats—that is part of life. But even today, when I lose at something—in business or in personal relationships—it seems to me that this defeat is the only thing that exists in the world; it eclipses everything positive I have managed to achieve.
A seven-year-old girl asked what time it was.
“Twenty minutes to ten,” her mother replied.
“No,” said the girl, “I want to know what time it is now, not what time it will be in twenty minutes.”
No doubt you have ridden in a car with children who endlessly ask, “When will we get there?” At first glance, this contradicts my claims that children always live in the present.
Why does this happen? We adults announced the destination and put it into the children’s heads that we were going somewhere specific. The problem is that they do not know how to wait; it seems to them that the destination should appear right now. They are present only in the present. They do not understand that the destination does not yet exist in the present.
Instead of constantly imposing our rhythms on children, we should occasionally allow ourselves to enter their rhythm. Of course, they must all eventually learn to enter society’s rhythm; school and work will become important parts of their lives. But we should not mistakenly think that a child’s slower rhythm has no value. Quite the contrary: it may prove invaluable both to them and to us.
The ability to create is deeply connected with our inner rhythm. (In childhood, this rhythm should be strengthened and nourished, not simply used as a way to train a child to maximum speed.) Teach children to meditate. On weekends, set aside time for an afternoon nap, both for the children and for yourself. Read to your child before bed. Sit and rock while holding a small child in your arms. Go for a walk and stop to smell the flowers or examine an acorn or a leaf. Teach your child to sing slow songs and play slow games. All this will not only help you slow down, but will also create a closeness between you and your child that no game of Nintendo can match.
I remember that one morning Eli and I were putting together a puzzle. It was a sunny autumn day; the windows were wide open, and a light breeze caressed us, but Eli was focused solely on the puzzle.
The puzzle was very simple—no more than twelve large pieces; even a three-year-old could assemble it, and that was precisely the point. Eli put the pieces together, then took them apart again and ordered me to “help” him put them together once more. I helped him, and then helped a third time, realizing that I did not find the activity boring. I was in such a state of bliss that I was willing for this puzzle assembly to last forever.
The combination of sunshine and a light breeze, the wonderful autumn light, and Eli’s complete concentration evoked in me a deep feeling of closeness with my child. At first I resisted because I had “more important” things to do. But as soon as I allowed myself simply to be with him and enter his rhythm, we experienced an astonishing, stretched-out moment.
In such moments we feel a deep love, the true foundation of our relationships with children. Ultimately, is there anything more important? Perhaps our sense of self-importance or guilt makes us stay busy or insist on producing something. But can busyness or productivity really be so important?
* * *
To experience such moments, which are just as significant for the child as for the parents, we must be with our children both physically and emotionally.
First, physically.
In his report, Secretary of Education Richard Riley stated that parents lack the time to help their children with their studies, and that this represents the main problem of the American education system. Not the lack of adequate instruction at school, but the lack of necessary parental help.
The more time we devote to our children, the better they will feel without us. I am not talking about time spent with children in the same room while the parents attend to their own affairs, paying no attention to the children. Nor do I mean time spent together with children in front of the television. I mean being with children in the present moment, listening to them, hearing them, taking their viewpoints, questions, and needs seriously, and responding seriously, even if their questions seem funny to us and their opinions “childish.”
If a child sleeps restlessly, let them cry, advises Dr. Richard Ferber in his book Solve Your Child’s Sleep Problems. But I believe that if a child sleeps poorly, it is not their problem but ours. Too often we demand that the child adapt to our rhythm instead of allowing them to live in their own rhythm. Some adjustment is of course necessary, but in most cases, why not let the child follow their own sleep pattern rather than impose ours on them?
When a four-year-old cries, our usual reaction is to try to stop them. Why? Mostly because it is unpleasant for us to hear and see a child crying, and because we feel somehow guilty toward them. If we slowed down, listened, and sensed what the problem was, we could act appropriately rather than simply react to the tears. Begin by staying with the child and asking what is wrong. They may not be able to tell you directly, so you may need to ask leading questions to find out the reason for the crying (“Did Dad forget to read you what he promised?” “Is Mom talking on the phone for too long?”). It is important not to belittle what is happening, make fun of it, or be ironic. The main thing is to listen and hear.
We tend not to attach much importance to our communication with children or to give them our genuine attention. We try simply to “manage” them instead of truly being there for them.
Everything becomes different when we truly enter our children’s rhythm. I can watch Eli behave like a naughty child or a tyrant, refusing to respond to what I suggest. But the moment I slow down and switch into his rhythm, he inevitably becomes the most wonderful and beloved child in the world. And so it is with all children: if we open
our hearts and our time to them, they will be fully present with us and show us the beautiful side of their being.
When you are present in the moment together with your child, treating them as a human being—with respect—you help form their trust and self-respect.
I know a single mother who gave her child everything—except herself. The best nanny, the “right” school, the most desirable toy or game—it was all for Rosie.
Rosie’s mother was a lawyer. Feeling guilty about the divorce and eager to show her husband that everything was fine (“I’ll show him!”), she worked all day just to provide the child with “the very best.” She usually came home terribly tired, and when she played with the child, she did so mechanically, thinking about how she could do something else—for example, read an interesting book while lying in bed.
“I hate Rosie,” she told me one day. “She is a spoiled child. She doesn’t appreciate anything I do for her. She only wants more toys and more attention.”
I do not think a child can be “spoiled,” at least not with toys and attention.
“Do you spend enough time with her?” I asked.
“Of course. Every weekend we do something together. I take her to the circus or the ballet. I even go on picnics with her and her friends.”
“Why not try spending a weekend doing nothing? Just stay together, the two of you.”
“Do nothing?” Her face expressed horror. “But I don’t know what I would do with her!”
I explained my theory of spontaneous time. She listened reluctantly, even suspiciously, but in the end agreed to try.
The mother and daughter made no plans for the following weekend; they simply decided to be together. As the mother told me, they had the best time of their lives. With no distractions, the mother focused her attention on her daughter, listened to her—perhaps for the first time—and realized that Rosie was an intelligent, attentive little girl who felt lonely, needed attention, and became very anxious when her mother was not nearby. They went for a walk in the park, then visited the zoo, and then rode on a carousel. They felt good and had fun; they simply paid no attention to the passage of time.
Rosie’s mother began applying the principles of switching time in practice, reduced her evening work, and started spending more time with her daughter. However, the trauma inflicted on the girl was deep, and it took considerable time to earn her daughter’s trust. Still, eventually she saw a striking change. Her daughter wanted to be with her. The mother’s guilt disappeared, replaced by joy.
When parents are constantly absent, the result is inevitably a lack of harmony between their rhythm and the child’s. If we do not switch our time by giving more attention to children and less to work, children lose their rhythm altogether, do not understand the norms of behavior, are unsure what is right and wrong, and tend to express their irritation actively, as Rosie did.
Two years ago, my wife and I took Eli to Bali. I would not want to romanticize that society’s complexity, but it has one wonderful feature—a deep admiration for children: Eli was the star of our family there.
Balinese people constantly carry their children in their arms for the first six months. Their energy is transmitted to the children—flows into them—and their children are exceptionally lively and friendly because they grow up surrounded by love.
I have visited many countries and met many people, but what especially impressed me was the way Balinese people know how to love. This ability is a direct result of the love and attention they themselves received as children. There is a direct connection. And it is a lesson for all of us.
Compare this with our society. If we want less violence and more care for people in our society, we must begin by giving more love and attention to our children, rather than simply teaching them “how to behave.”
We all know children with attention deficit, formerly called “hyperactivity.” A child cannot concentrate on one activity, quickly losing interest in it. They cannot sit still, are always active, often speak out of turn, and interrupt. They do not like looking directly into people’s eyes and apparently feel uncomfortable with themselves and others.
A therapist specializing in work with such children will say that these children have a poor sense of rhythm. They cannot beat time or dance.
I believe that such disturbances of the sense of rhythm lie at the root of the noticeable increase in the number of children with attention deficit. The problem is that society’s speed and rhythm are increasing so rapidly that some children simply cannot keep up and cannot fall into the correct rhythm. They try to change their rhythm to match society’s rhythm, but unsuccessfully. Like a racing car in neutral, they waste an enormous amount of “fuel”—energy going nowhere.
We treat such children with Ritalin; the drug stimulates the nervous system, but the rhythm nevertheless slows down. This apparent contradiction is explained by the fact that stimulation allows children, like an engine running at full speed, to engage with the necessary rhythm and thus fall into time.
Treatment for such children would be more appropriate if we taught them to slow their rhythm. It requires enormous patience, but they can be taught practices that cultivate full attention; they can be taught to rest during the day, sit quietly while reading, dance to slow music, and pay attention to others. Certainly, this nonmedication method is worth trying.
In my view, American children are a vivid example of children with attention deficit; they are uninhibited and know only their own rhythm of speeds and sensations. This is of course an exaggeration, but in other countries I have seen children who were less frenzied.
Attention deficit is a relatively new disorder of the child’s psyche; the recent increase in the number of “normally” uninhibited children is also a new phenomenon, and yet I believe we will see even more such children when the generation that plays Nintendo and Sega becomes adult.
Today the speed required of children is ten times greater than that required in my day, not only because the amount of information has increased—although knowledge has not increased and may even have diminished—but also because computer games, educational tapes, and television have become children’s toys, drawing them into a fast rhythm almost from birth. (I watched my favorite old cartoons with my sons Ram and Dan; they did not like the old Three Musketeers and preferred a considerably inferior version, in my opinion.)
Our children see too much violence on television, and at such high speed that their sense of human pain and moral problems becomes dulled. And parents, whether rich or poor, are always absent and cannot control everything their children receive from television.
It is no wonder that children steal, fight completely ruthlessly, and even kill, because too often there is no one around to teach them to distinguish right from wrong, while the heroes played by Arnold Schwarzenegger and Hulk Hogan teach them that violence is perfectly acceptable if the “good guy” wins.
The only way to teach children to change their rhythm is through the art of switching time. But we cannot teach it if we do not master it ourselves. So how can we teach children to change the flow of their time? There are many ways:
— From an early age, practice attention-concentration exercises with your child. For example, have the child listen to a bell or a string and follow the sound until it disappears.
— Strictly limit the time spent watching television programs.
— Read books to children, especially before bedtime. This simple practice makes children enter the rhythm of a book, becomes a ritual of switching time, and is also a wonderful way to establish a connection between child and parent.
— Practice spontaneous time with your child.
— Teach your child to distinguish between time for themselves and time for you.
— Begin every family meal with a minute of silence.
— Remember to respect and support the rhythms inherent in your child—without forgetting your own rhythms.
— Meditate with your child. (Thich Nhat Hanh always includes children in his meditations. This does not mean they must sit motionless; he simply wants to give them the opportunity to experience the true nature of the present moment.)
— For Christmas, prepare the best gift for your children—your time. Instead of running around stores looking for some toy, spend time with your child—go together to the zoo or to the movies. It is better to be with your child than to search for something to please them.
Remember that children complain most of all that their parents do not give them enough time. And without a sense of family, a child loses much in their development.
I do not know any parents who, after switching from their own rhythm and tuning in to their child’s rhythm, have not experienced the joy of being a father or mother.
A mother's prayer can reach the bottom of the sea...
I remember the story of yet another patient of mine.
I simply turned to God and said: